you gotta do the cookin' by the book
by whoyouwere
Summary: Five times Fiyero tries to cook. (Also known as: cooking disasters with Fiyero Tiggular.)


**If this looks familiar to you guys, that would be because I first uploaded this fic on Tumblr, then on AO3. Don't murder me if I've done something wrong, this is the first time I've written for the Wicked fandom. (Please give me concrit. I need it. I need it like _air_.)**

* * *

i. Fiyero's seven years old the first time he tries to cook. In his defense, it had seemed so easy, when the chefs were doing it. He'd figured that if they could do it, then sweet Lurline, he could too.

He ends up accidentally burning down the kitchen, and is grounded for a month straight.

* * *

ii. The second time is at Shiz. For some reason he's been signed up for a cooking class, which is not cool, really. Why anyone would even think to sign _him_, of all people, up for this class, he doesn't even know.

"Now, class," the teacher says, "make sure to beat the cream cheese, butter and sugar until it is as fluffy as—"

He zones out almost immediately, glancing every so often at the clock. Really, when is this class going to _end_, already? He's got more important things to do than just beat some batter and hope it's going to turn out well. Like, say, raising some hell.

"Mr. Tiggular," the teacher's voice cuts in, snapping him out of his reverie. "I said beat until _fluffy_, not beat until _smooth_. Does that look fluffy to you?"

He looks down at his pathetically smooth batter. "That depends on your definition of fluffy," he answers.

"You know," another, more familiar voice says, and he whips around to see—ah. Of course it's Elphaba Thropp. And of course her batter looks better than his. "I'd think even _you_ knew the definition of fluffy. 'Light in texture, containing air'—it's right there in the dictionary, if you ever bothered to pick one up."

"And why would I?" he shoots back.

"Ahem," the teacher coughs. "Miss Thropp, Mr. Tiggular, please. There are other students who would like to finish their cakes on time. If you're going to argue, _take it outside_."

The way she says it, with a dangerous little glint in her eyes and the way her voice has just gone very, very low, sends the message clearly enough.

(His cake looks less like a proper cake and more like a pancake, when the class is over and the fire he managed to start is put out. Galinda takes one look at it, then at her cake, and says, "I could teach you!"

Fiyero stares at her, then opens his mouth to say, _No thank you_, but then Elphaba says, "I'm not so sure it'll help, Galinda. In fact, I'm certain he'd rather leave the cooking to somebody else, and in this case, I agree—less fires that way."

"Excuse me," Fiyero huffs. "I could cook something without starting a fire."

"Prove it, then," Elphaba says.

Galinda grins. "Then we're agreed!" she proclaims. "Fiyero, starting tomorrow, I am going to teach you how to cook!"

_Sweet Lurline_, he thinks, _what have I gotten myself into?_)

* * *

iii. He almost burns down Galinda's kitchen.

"If you say _I told you so_, Elphaba—" Fiyero begins.

"I'm not," Elphaba replies. Galinda's passed out in their room, after having bemoaned her kitchen and tried to stamp out the fire, and Elphaba's managed to clean it up so it looks somewhat more presentable.

There's nothing to do for the piece of charcoal that was once, at some point, ingredients for what should've been a very delicious meal, though.

"You're _thinking_ it."

"And if I am?" she challenges.

He crosses his arms. "I'm going to prove you wrong," he says, before his brain manages to catch up to him and shrieks, _What the hell is wrong with you, Tiggular?!_

Elphaba raises an eyebrow. "Considering the results of this afternoon's attempt at doing so, I doubt it," she says. "Still, feel free to try. Just…do it in an open space next time."

(He still ends up setting his subsequent attempts on fire.

Somehow Galinda still keeps trying, and honestly he doesn't really mind this whole "private lessons in cooking" thing, if it means he gets to talk to Elphaba more. Even if most of the time they're just sniping at each other while Galinda's giving out instructions and trying to make sure he doesn't set her kitchen on fire _again_.

And then, at some point, he realizes that he's stopped setting the kitchen on fire, and that the food he's making is actually somewhat edible.

At that point, Elphaba says, "If you say _I told you so_, Fiyero—"

"I didn't say anything," he innocently says. _But I'm totally thinking it._)

* * *

iv. He's not even sure this counts as cooking. They don't really have access to a proper kitchen, nor is this even much of a meal, by his standards—they're just sticking berries onto a stick, holding them out over a fire, and then eating them. A few years ago, he wouldn't have even thought about it.

Hell, this entire situation would've seemed impossible to him a few years ago, but here he is. He wouldn't trade it for anything.

He leans over and bites off the top strawberry on Elphaba's stick.

"Hey!"

"Sorry," he says, displaying his own stick, clean of berries. "I'm all out."

"See if I pick any more berries for you, then," she huffs, but she's smiling brilliantly. There's a certain light to her eyes when she smiles, he's noticed—one that could light up the entire forest. Then again, he's had a lot of time to notice all the little things about her, since they ran from the Wizard's guards a few days ago.

"Oh, how can I live," he drawls, but then breaks out into laughter. She joins in later, and soon enough they're leaning on each other for support.

Then her gaze meets his, and before he knows it, they're kissing again, like yesterday and the day before that, like they might not see each other again, like they're trying to memorize how the other tastes like.

Elphaba's mouth, at the moment, tastes like roasted strawberries.

It's probably his favorite flavor in the world right now.

* * *

v. So he's not allowed near the stove. Or, really, anywhere that could possibly set him on fire. Hell, it's a miracle he's even allowed in the kitchen, but that would probably be because he wanted to at least help Elphaba somehow, and she couldn't really keep him out if he had his mind set on something.

Besides, he needed something to do.

"Fiyero," a sharp voice cuts in, snapping him out of his reverie, "that's enough beating."

He blinks, then looks down at the batter. The recipe had called for beating the batter till it was fluffy, and—irony of ironies—his batter somehow turned out smooth. "Oh, come on," he grumbles.

"Remind you of anything?" Elphaba asks, taking the batter from him and setting it down on the table.

Fiyero huffs, then perches himself on top of the table, as far away from the fire as he can get. "Not particularly, no," he says, but Elphaba just smirks at him as she joins him.

"Oh, really?" she asks. "Not, say, a flat cake back in Shiz?"

"Please don't remind me," he says. "And I've gotten better since then!"

"Not before setting the kitchen on fire a grand total of seven times," Elphaba retorts. "You were the only person I knew who was really, truly that bad at cooking."

"Like I said," he says, "I got better."

She smiles, a little, the sad half-smile that Fiyero doesn't really want to see, because that means she's feeling guilty over his state, and he doesn't want her to be. He's fine with it, he is—there's a lot of things he misses, about being human. Like being able to actually feel textures. Like not falling on his ass every so often. Like sex. Like food. Like not being so easily flammable.

But anyway.

Okay, he misses being human. But he really, truly is fine with being a scarecrow, if it means being with Elphaba.

"It's not your fault," he says, quietly, and he places his hand over hers. "I told you, you did the best you could."

She opens her mouth to argue, but he leans forward and kisses her. It's not the same as it used to be—one more thing he misses about being human—but she kisses back, and he's sure she's smiling against his lips.

(The cake, once they get back to it, actually turns out somewhat decent.)

* * *

Glinda stares at the cake, then, very slowly, smiles. It's not a very good cake, by her standards—the icing's a bit sloppy, and there's an overabundance of florettes, and it doesn't really taste all that heavenly, but it reminds her of Shiz.

"_Happy birthday, Glinda,"_ it reads. She doesn't know who sent it—all anyone knows is that it just showed up out of nowhere in her room. There's no note, no name, no anything that could possibly identify her well-wisher.

That's right. She'd almost forgotten, in the whirlwind of Ozian politics, but today's her birthday. There aren't very many people who know her birthday now, and two of them are—are—

She sucks in a deep breath. Oz, she still misses them—she misses Elphie and Fiyero and Nessarose and Biq (_it's Boq,_ she reminds herself) and everything they used to be, everything they once had.

But missing them won't bring them back.

She takes another bite of the cake, closes her eyes, and whispers, "Happy birthday, Glinda. You can make it to another one."

* * *

End.


End file.
